


Mid-Match Rest Break

by Tridraconeus



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, M/M, Spanking, Unsafe Sex, caustic is a bunker bitch, for science, older bottom, risky sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: This Game has gone slowly. The ring would close on them, Pathfinder had helpfully chirped before meeting his doom at the end of Bloodhound’s Sentinel, and Fuse had tried nobly to reach his banner until Caustic seized him by the back of his jacket and hauled him to the grey concrete behemoth, where Caustic reinforced their position and laid in wait for… participants.
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Fuse | Walter Fitzroy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Mid-Match Rest Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeauTRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeauTRex/gifts).



> back at it again with OLD GUYS GETTIN IT ON, please do enjoy

The return to King’s Canyon suited Caustic well. There were some good spots on the Talos arena— and he would be a fool to not learn them thoroughly as to best take advantage of them— and certainly Olympus was a breath of fresh air compared to the backwoods research bases or drab concrete walls the other arenas offered, but there was nowhere that felt quite so much like _home_ as the close corridors of the bunker. The structure cleaved a mountain ridge in two, providing a passageway through: a straight shot with a multitude of one-way rooms and plenty of hides for the discerning scientist to settle back and observe. Bunker was possibly his favorite place to be, outside his lab.

This Game has gone slowly. The ring would close on them, Pathfinder had helpfully chirped before meeting his doom at the end of Bloodhound’s Sentinel, and Fuse had tried nobly to reach his banner until Caustic seized him by the back of his jacket and hauled him to the grey concrete behemoth, where Caustic reinforced their position and laid in wait for… participants. 

“I feel bad for the guy, is all,” Fuse argued. He rolled a grenade up and down his arm. While Caustic was aware of the special modifications made to grenades available to contestants, it didn’t make him any less uneasy. 

“Put that thing away, Fitzroy. We have a job to do.”

“It’s bloody boring. I’d rather be cracking heads than sitting down here in this…” he looked to the left, and then to the right, dramatically taking in the hallways studded with inflated, armed gas traps. “ _Labyrinth_ of horror.”

“It is hardly a labyrinth,” Caustic retorted stiffly. “And the ring will be closing around this location; it is wisest for us to fortify this area. Our opponents will be forced to confront us in here. We have the advantage.” He looked properly at Fuse and continued, as firmly as possible. “I will not jeopardize a win because _you_ want to… ‘crack heads.’”

Fuse shrugged and tucked the grenade away. He smoothed his hair back with his palm, instead, and grinned— he’d gotten an idea. Caustic testingly kicked the base of a gas trap to make sure it would stay upright; sometimes they pressurized too enthusiastically, tipped over, and rolled out of position… a design oversight that was nearly impossible to catch in production. Still, it wasn’t enough of a hassle for Caustic to entirely redesign the traps.

Not yet. 

“Maybe there’s something else we can do to keep lil’ ol’ me occupied, yeah?” 

It wasn’t entirely unwelcome, Caustic admitted to himself. They were well-defended in the tunnel, and he would have plenty of advance warning from the internal release system showing up on his map HUD. He _knew_ this place inside and out; and with a whole five minutes until the ring even thought of closing, they had time. Given the choice of keeping Fuse occupied or watching him play with a grenade, the choice was laughably easy. 

“Very well. Have it your way, Fitzroy, but we must remain alert for enemy incursion.” 

“Alert’s my _second_ middle name.” He grinned, sauntering closer. “Now, if the good doctor wouldn’t mind dropping his drawers…” 

“Do you intend to…?”

Fuse shrugged, and slipped Caustic a cheeky wink. “I reckon it wouldn’t do for both of us to be caught with our pants down.” 

“What I mean to say is—”

Fuse cut him off with another wave of his hand. “I’m well-acquainted with it, doc, and I’m not afraid to… Ah… put my money where my mouth is.”

Caustic was not one to turn down an offer of oral, so he nodded and reached under the hazmat material of his smock to unbutton and unzip his pants. 

“That’s more like it,” Fuse encouraged. He dropped to his knees, looking up at Caustic with a smirk. Caustic was sure he was getting off on the idea, however slim, that someone would _witness_ this; the great Caustic brought low by carnal human desires. It would certainly inflate the Salvonian’s ego past the gargantuan heights it had already reached. Caustic was not entirely innocent; he was looking forward to it, and if Fuse’s silver tongue and past experience in bed was any indication he would enjoy this quite a lot.

Fuse had just palmed Caustic’s smock out of the way, wrapping his hand around Caustic’s half-hard length to jerk it with his flesh hand, when Caustic received a notification that one of his traps had been triggered.

He growled, reaching down to grip Fuse’s wrist and remove him.

“ _Regretfully,_ we are being interrupted. The east entrance. Hold them off. I must compose myself.”

“More’s the pity,” Fuse popped up without a beat, pulling his 30-30 off of his back. He slipped out of the room past Caustic, and Caustic was in the middle of tugging his pants up, so. 

At least there weren’t any _cameras_ in this room, he muttered to himself, and buttoned himself up. He hadn’t had to run around while so obviously aroused in… a while, and he was thankful for the smock, but it was still uncomfortable and would be embarrassing if anybody except for his partner knew. 

Down the hall, gunfire erupted, and the traps set in wait erupted. The hallways filled with choking gas. Screams and coughing rang out; Caustic did not recognize any of them, proving their foolish foes to likely be prospects. Any _real_ Legend would know better than to barrel ignorantly into Caustic’s territory.

“Bad news, doc,” Fuse called over the comm— Caustic looked to his HUD and noted with dismay that Fuse had somehow managed to get himself _downed._ “Full squad, looks to be another of the way. Downed two of ‘em but— hey, there, don’t get ahead of yourself— Doc, you’d better hurry.” He didn’t sound too concerned, but Caustic hustled nonetheless. He unhooked his toxin grenade from his belt and hurled it into the small room Fuse and his opponent were holed into. The traps were pernicious and deadly, but the grenade was even better; the highly-concentrated gas could reduce biomatter to an inert lump in the matter of five minutes. While it was forcibly dispersed in the arena far before that, it fulfilled its purpose of ending life with admirable efficiency. 

The man standing over Fuse dropped, clawing his throat, and shoved himself into a corner as if that would save him. Caustic pushed into the room to fix both downed men with a glare; Fuse grinned, resting his arm on his knee. The prospect hacked, reduced to sobbing.

After the tenth, or around there, they began to meet death with dignity, or else their spirits had been thoroughly broken by the _real_ Legends. This one was new; Caustic recognized him by a shock of brown hair dyed electric orange as the one kid from Solace everyone liked. He was coughing as his lungs liquidized, tears streaming down his cheeks, blood flecking his chin and dripping from his nose. Caustic wasn’t sure he was in any condition to listen.

No matter.

“A word of advice, if this blunder doesn’t eliminate you? Look _very_ closely before you wander onto my turf.” 

The gas would finish the boy, if the showrunners hadn’t already decided the audience had gotten enough voyeuristic shivers out of his brutal end and recalled him to a respawn dropship. He turned instead to Fuse, kneeling by his side to plunge a hypo needle into his chest. “You will die when it suits me, Salvonian. No sooner,” he snarled, and hauled Fuse to his feet. He opened the prospect’s deathbox and tossed a syringe at his feet. 

“Thanks. Never doubted you for a moment.” Fuse patched himself up, sighing as the cold, tingling spread of nanites tended to the most pressing injuries. Fascinating science, really.

Caustic was still hard. He seized Fuse by the back of the neck as soon as he’d tossed the empty syringe away, shoving him to his knees and over the deathbox. More coughing and screaming filled the tunnels, and then gunfire; there had to be at least five people locked in combat. Perfect.

“Let’s finish what we started.”

“But there’s a buncha clowns _right there,”_ Fuse protested. Not very hard; he wriggled back against Caustic’s hips. 

“Multiple squads. They’ll keep each other busy. And I thought you wanted me to keep you _occupied,_ Salvonian. It would be a pity if you were bored of me already.”

“Bored of you?” Fuse laughed, the sound nearly lost against the compressed hiss of gas as the trap spewed its deadly payload. “Mate, you’re more full of surprises than a piñata of scorpions.”

The gas surrounded them. The tiny room was now, entirely, a death trap; no one would risk coming in, especially since the fight was hot in the corridor. 

“Shh…” Caustic rolled his hips until they rested flush against Fuse’s backside. The older man groaned and lowered his chest fully to the deathbox, back flexing; shoulders shifting as he took a deep breath. Even with the antidote that neutralized the Nox Gas in contact with his skin and saliva, Caustic was well-aware of the effects. As any gas, it replaced oxygen; for his teammates, it wasn’t that big of a deal if they were timely about exiting the trap radius, and for himself he had a respirator for a reason. Here, with Caustic’s body weight on him, there was nowhere Fuse could go… nothing he could do except keep his head low enough that the stale air untouched by the chemical concoction could reach his lungs. 

How _intoxicating,_ the power Caustic held over something as basic as his ability to breathe. “They won’t even know we’re here if you stay quiet. You wouldn’t want them to see what we’re doing, do you?” His own voice was rough with excitement. There was something transgressively thrilling about this… dalliance, while a pitched battle was taking place only meters away.

A body crashed into the glass, barely a dark, shadowed mass from how thick the gas cover was. It flailed and shot, and then flailed more as it was riddled with holes; a smear of blood followed it as it slid to the floor, and there was a muted _thunk,_ and then the tell-tale sound of the body being swapped for a deathbox as the competitor was whisked away to the respawn dropship for _immediate_ medical reconstruction. 

“You’re a madman, Doctor,” Fuse rasped appreciatively. 

“So I’ve been told.” 

He tugged Fuse’s trousers down, not even bothering with fiddling with his belts. He heard no complaints. Before, they’d always been very safe and cautious; Caustic did not delude himself that Fuse had brought condoms and lube into an active firing zone. Games were, after all, not the time nor place for what they were _currently_ doing. This was, entirely, an exercise in risk. Caustic fished himself out of his pants, eased his smock to the side, and pressed his aching length against Fuse’s hole. His breath rattled in his rebreather as he began to slowly push in; Fuse’s back arched and he spread his knees to help the angle. Without lubrication it was slow but steady going, and Caustic’s own sweat and pre provided some slickness. Caustic had always produced copious amounts.

A younger him would take pride in never being content with going halfway, but as any young man he’d learned the limits of his body with gusto and realized, to some degree, how ridiculous it was. It was nothing but a slight, welcome addition of slickness here. Fuse groaned as he hilted himself entirely; the sound of gunshots rattled the corridors. The gas would linger and keep the halls and the tiny room impassible, fit only to dart through and a deathtrap to those who lingered, so concern was far from Caustic’s mind; how Fuse must be _consumed_ with it, though, with how focused he was on keeping his voice down. 

Another rash of combat broke out, this time from the west, and Caustic took the opportunity to lay a stinging _smack_ on Fuse’s bare ass. 

“Doc—” Fuse protested, lurching forward over the deathbox, and Caustic followed with another hard smack. To the other side, for symmetry. “Startin’ to think you don’t want me to be quiet.” 

Caustic cut him off before he could say anything else, palm colliding with Fuse’s toned, reddening rear. He took on color quickly, Caustic’s blows showing starkly against his pale ass, several shades lighter than the rest of him. 

“Bleat all you want. Just don’t blame me if the fight returns to our location.”

Caustic could not see Fuse’s face, and thus could not see him rolling his eyes. Nevertheless, he was sure the man was playfully exasperated with him if the way he shoved fruitlessly against them ground said anything. 

Fuse was as tight and hot around his cock as he was the first and second (and third, and fourth…) times they’d done this. Caustic knew better than to assume they were some foolish emotional nonsense like _together,_ but he took no small amount of pride in knowing that though Fuse had flirted and teasingly, insincerely propositioned the other Legends he’d only really spent the night with Caustic. Proud, but not surprised. He was closest matching in age, if not maturity or lack thereof, and as rough-and-tumble roguish as Fuse was he wasn’t a bad person. 

His loss. Caustic’s benefit. He did well enough in games, even considering how quickly he’d gone down earlier. Caustic blamed distraction and a losing numbers game on that one.

The arena was no Bonecage. Yes, he’d watched clips of Fuse’s vicious bouts, ostensibly to learn more about their newest contender, and he hadn’t been disappointed. 

And the champion felt _very_ good squirming on his cock. Caustic snapped his hips forward, one hand weighing heavily on Fuse’s back to hold him down against the deathbox. His breath huffed in his respirator from exertion, Fuse himself wheezing from the press and awkward position he had to assume to escape the noxious cloud of gas. 

As nice as it felt, they were on a time crunch. The ring was moving— had been moving, Caustic noted with dull surprise. His thoughts had gotten away from him as he fucked the other man. He was close, even, spurred on by a hot wave of pleasure at how Fuse groaned and his flesh hand tried to reach over the box to grab his cock. 

“Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll give you the touch you need,” Caustic breathed. He shifted his hand from Fuse’s hip to his groin, idly stroking the hard length of Fuse’s cock with gloved fingers. He brushed his hand over the tip and it came away so slick with pre that when he wrapped his hand around Fuse there was barely any friction at all; the rubber of the glove and ample lubrication of Fuse’s pre giving a smooth, frictionless slide as Fuse immediately began to buck into the touch. His sudden, enthusiastic movement— even more than the slight, rolling motions he’d been doing before, rocking back into Caustic’s thrusts— won a gasp, a tighter hand, a throaty moan from both men. Any concept of being _quiet_ was gone from the room, replaced instead by oppressive, desperate need. Why hadn’t he done this _sooner?_

Well. He knew. This was just a serendipitous alignment of opportunity and desire, and there would be a proper round two once they’d won the game and weathered the adoring media storm. They didn’t need to know how the pair passed the time in the close, claustrophobic tunnels of the bunker.

“C’mon, Caustic. Touch me,” Fuse pleaded, even though he didn’t really have to anymore. Caustic had meant to make him beg, but, well…

It was only to his benefit that Fuse knew how to have fun with it. Gunshots rang out again, still to the west but closer, and they both groaned and rocked against each other with renewed, urgent vigor. Caustic’s thighs ached in time with a pulsing ball of need in his groin. 

It was too much. His grip tightened around Fuse’s cock as the man moaned, hand pounding against the ground, and only barely remembered to withdraw enough to spill himself on the man’s ruddy cheek instead of inside of him. _That_ would make the oncoming battle more difficult than it had to be. Fuse moaned again and bucked into the movements of Caustic’s hand until he came, splattering the rubber of the gloves and the polymer of the deathbox. 

They both waited there for a few moments, puffing from exertion— possibly also oxygen loss, since the gas was still thick in the room— and Caustic finally grabbed a convenient scrap of fabric from one of the weapon tarps and wiped his cum off of Fuse’s ass.

“Ah, careful. It’s still tender back there,” Fuse teased. He wiggled his ass playfully, still draped over the deathbox.

“I’d never imagine why,” Caustic replied drily. He smacked him again— not quite as hard, but Fuse still yelped and laughed, and slipped off the side of the box to put himself to rights— and began to redress.

“Well, that was refreshing.” 

Caustic had only turned away for a second. How was he fully dressed— gun _reloaded—_ already?

Gunshots rattled down the hall. No time to reflect. He buttoned up his pants, fastened his belt, and unhooked his grenade from his belt. 

“Enough. I have _research_ to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a kudos and/or a comment! I love getting feedback and comments are free serotonin even if it's something simple like a keysmash.


End file.
